


The Lion and the Knight

by EinahSirro



Series: The Lion and the Bull [12]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Troy (2004)
Genre: Betrayal, Crusades, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Obsessive Achilles, Rebellious Hector, Reincarnation, The Holy Grail, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23142358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: Welcome to the Crusades!
Relationships: Achilles/Hector (Troy 2004)
Series: The Lion and the Bull [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1513298
Comments: 34
Kudos: 40





	1. Louis

Achilles stood in the candlelight for a moment, drinking in the dazzling joy and relief of his Hector… alive! Louis, alive! And recognizing him, greeting him with that smile, welcoming him! He leaned forward and let his head drop onto his knight’s shoulder, exhaling like a weary traveler who has finally returned home. 

Louis drew him into an embrace that began tentative, but then tightened almost involuntarily. Achilles stepped closer, letting his body press warmly against his beloved. They stood like that for a moment, faces close, inhaling one another’s scent, and then Louis stepped back.

“Wait,” he breathed, and went past him to lock the door. Then he slid a metal sheet over the small, grated window in the portal, for privacy.

Returning, he came to Achilles again, touching his hair and shoulders once more, as if assuring himself that his angel was real.

“I told them,” Louis confided, his dark eyes wide and direct. “I told them that you would come, and when you did, it would mean the Mamluks would arrive within days. It’s always like that, isn’t it? You come, and then the enemy comes. But for a long time they humored me, and only pretended to believe. Only one other Knight ever spoke to you, Geoffroi, and he told me it was best that we didn’t—“ Louis looked away for a moment, dissatisfied. The corners of his mouth deepened in that familiar way that made his angel’s throat ache a bit.

Achilles lifted a hand to cradle the fine line of his Hector’s jaw, and gave him a look of adoring reproof.

“You ran away from me,” he stated meaningfully.

Louis’ large, dark eyes turned back toward him. “I know.”

Achilles shook his head slightly. “Where did you go? I looked for you… for months I looked for you.”

Louis looked around the room vaguely. “I went back to the Knights. I just got into the boat and went back up the river.”

The warrior looked over the red cross emblazoned on the front of his beloved’s white tunic. “You went back to the ones who’d kept you captive?”

“They were the only ones who ever cared about me, they and Pierre. My own family was happy to drop my corpse into a forgotten crypt and leave it to gather dust.”

Achilles shook his head again. If his Hector remembered anything from his past lives, he must know who else cared for him. Perhaps Louis didn’t remember as much as his warrior was hoping.

“My father was no doubt glad to get the news that his mad heir was gone,” Louis added, turning away and doffing his white tunic. Achilles watched him pull off the chainmail hauberk and drape it carefully on the wooden form near the wall. Then he shed his long tunic.

“No.” Achilles said, watching his beloved lay his uniform aside, and take off his boots. “I was there. I was the one who handed him the letter. He was shocked. He stood by the window with his hand over his mouth, and read it over and over, saying ‘My poor Louie, my poor son.’” Achilles felt as though he was addressing his original Hector once again, on the island, assuring him that Priam valued him. 

How much he regretted, over the years, that throwaway remark down by the pool. _You are horseflesh to him._ It was true, it seemed, but he should never have said it. Achilles at the time had thought of nothing but transferring his object’s allegiance from father to lover. What a hungry, grasping thing he had been… and he wasn’t entirely certain he had changed. He had merely learned patience, and a bit of finesse. 

No, that wasn’t true. He wanted his Hector to be not just his, but to be _happily_ his. And for Hector to be happy, other people must be involved, somehow. Achilles wasn’t sure why. He himself had no such need; his Hector was enough. 

But now they stood in this stone tower, in this private room with candles and a bed, and a lock on the door. Louis was gazing hopefully at him, wearing nothing now but a loose, undyed shirt and breeches.

“Did he?” Louis asked. “What else did he say?”

Achilles tried to remember, “He was upset that they had held no ceremony. He seemed at loss. He said he knew you were sick when he left, but—“

Louis stiffened, eyes growing wide. “I wasn’t.”

Achilles shut his lips, cursing himself. He should not have expounded. Now he’d blundered into it.

“I was fine when my father left. I only fell ill a day later…” Louis turned and went to the bed, sinking down to sit on the foot of it, leaning against the post as Achilles had seen him do so many times before.

The warrior sighed, removed his sandals, and went to lie on the bed, keeping his cloak carefully closed over his nakedness.

“What are you saying?” He asked, rather mournful to see that the flare of joy at their reunion was swamped by the continuing drama of his Hector’s cyclical mortality.

“He knew.” Louis said briefly, lips tight. “I had grown to suspect it, since you showed me the letter. His last goodbye to me was more affectionate than his normal way. I thought it was because he was finally growing to love me. Later I realized… he knew he would never see me again.”

The room was silent for a moment. For Louis, it was very bitter. For Achilles, it was just another Priam, another Liuvigild, another father who did not value his beloved Hector.

Achilles folded his arms behind his head. “So when you returned to the Knights of your own free will, and they knew now that your visions were real, what did they do?”

Louis finally focused on Achilles again. “They broke the lock on the door to my room, and swore to keep and protect me. They started letting me train with them, and take my meals with them.”

“Did you take the holy orders as they have?” Achilles asked, more to keep his love’s focus off of his venal family than out of true curiosity.

“Not yet,” Louis admitted. “This is more of a disguise. They don’t even want to let me fight. They worry that I’ll attack a vision in the midst of battle. But I think when the time comes, they will have no choice but to let me join them.”

“Do you still see visions?”

“Every day,” Louis said simply, leaning his head back slightly against the post.

Achilles admired how the black whiskers faded into the long, white neck. “Do you know what they are, or what they mean?”

“No. I only know that when you appear, it means battle, and danger. Great danger. I know you are here to help, but I also know that we may lose. And that is what I don’t understand,” here Louis leaned forward, knee drawn up, to stare at his companion. “If God sends an angel, it should mean He is determined that we triumph. But so often we do not, so… is God defeated?” Louis shook his head, puzzled, and slightly angry. “It makes no sense.”

_All this again,_ Achilles thought wearily. “Do you remember nothing of me but that I fight at your side?”

Louis’ eyes widened and he looked a bit apprehensive. “What do you mean?”

“Do you not remember all the nights we’ve shared a bed?” Achilles bit out. He was tired of carefully feeling his way, suddenly. 

His Hector opened his mouth and nothing came out.

Achilles just lay for a moment, looking at him from his languid pose, blue eyes steady. “Years and years, you have been my lover. Life after life, time after time,” he sat up abruptly, angry with this endless trial of beginning again and again. It was not charming any longer. 

His Hector looked as if he wanted to speak, but could not.

“All your visions are your previous lives, and I can name every one of them for you.” This was not strictly true, but Achilles was ready to overcome his beloved with a barrage of information.

Rather than look overcome, however, Louis simply looked open. “Yes,” he breathed. “yes, tell me. Help me! My mind is a labyrinth of visions and images that make no sense. I thought I was going mad until you came to the tower—“

“Then why did you run from me?” Achilles snapped, suddenly realizing that he was angry. Now that the relief was over, he was like a parent whose idiot child had nearly gotten himself killed, and he was tempted to administer some discipline.

His Hector still stared, lips parted, and finally said what children always say. “I don’t know.”

Achilles inhaled to shout at him, and found himself emitting a helpless laugh instead. He lay back down, sighing. Louis stared at him and suddenly he was smiling as well.

“I don’t know!” He repeated, and his smile grew into a laugh, dark eyes sparkling under his thick brows.

Achilles gestured to the empty spot in the bed at his side. “Come here. Come lie with me. Talk to me. I will tell you all about your visions, and who you are, and who you were. You are like… a river that has flowed through many lands, and many times, and every one of them has a name, and a story. You are like a book, and I have read it.”

Louis looked hesitant for a moment, and then came to lay at Achilles’ side.

“Give me your hand,” Achilles said, holding out his. Louis took it, and they lay, hands clasped tight.


	2. The Past

“Now, I will tell you that you have lived at least nine times before, and maybe more, but nine that I can tell you of,” Achilles began with the air of telling a bedtime story.

Louis lay on his back, amazed, head turned to regard him. “But are you an angel?”

“No.” Achilles said flatly. “But you have mistaken me for one so many times, I have learned to accept it.”

Louis gave another faint huff of nervous laughter. “I have seen you pulling me around in the water, trying to teach me to swim.”

“That was when you were Hector, Prince of Troy,” Achilles answered instantly. “You’d never learned to swim because you were the eldest son, and always busy with your responsibilities. But you commanded the army.”

Louis’s eyes were huge, and regarded him now with absolute fascination.

“Tell me another vision,” Achilles suggested, gazing back at him with adoration.

“I’m in a stable with my arms wrapped around a horse’s neck, and I’m crying,” Louis whispered. 

Achilles frowned. “How old are you?”

“Young. The horse is much taller than I am.”

“Ah, that was probably young Daniel. He was given to the church to be a monk, and his name was changed to Philip. His job was copying scrolls about Jesus, and translating them to Latin.”

Louis rolled over on his side, closer to Achilles, still clutching his hand. “I’ve seen the scrolls. And I learned Latin very quickly,” he admitted, rapt.

“He translated scrolls about Jesus, and the stars, and some country to the east…” Achilles scowled, trying to remember.

“India?” Suggested Louis hopefully.

“Yes, I believe it was. India.” Achilles rolled too, so they were face to face on the pillows. “Tell me another.”

“I have a wife, but she’s very young. We sit in a cold room and talk very quietly, as if we’re afraid someone will hear us.”

Achilles nodded. “That sounds like Hermenegild. He was a prince too, in Spain. His father didn’t believe… something about Jesus, and ordered his son’s head cut off for disagreeing.”

“He had my head cut off? No… no, because you were there!” Louis said excitedly. “The Bishop! You are the one who killed the Bishop!”

“Shhh!!” Achilles said with a smile. “That’s not the sort of thing one shouts out in the middle of the night.” But inside, he was a joyous, roaring fire. Finally, his Hector was remembering! Might one day they be equals? Two men who shared the same memories, and the same love, and were happy together? He thought of how effortless it was for his mother and Luke, for so many years. Might he have that at last?

“I’m running barefoot by the docks, and all the fisherman are waving at me. My hair is very long,” Louis said eagerly.

“Xander. Greece. His mother took him from his father. Do you ever remember having a twin brother?”

Louis just stared, mouth open. Finally he said, “I thought it was just the fantasy of a lonely child.”

“No,” Achilles assured him, reaching out now, and stroking his curls. “Xander and Karan—you must have visions from them both. Do you see pirate ships with black sails?”

His Hector was speechless for a moment. His warrior let his hand drift down to his chest and lay feeling the heartbeat beneath his palm. Louis swallowed and began again.

“I sometimes have a vision of you hammering with your sword on a shield, and the man under it is terrified, but you aren’t trying to kill him. It’s very foggy. All these men are standing around watching you, and they’re all just frozen, and I am too.”

Achilles had to think about that one. “Who is the man?”

“I don’t know,” Louis admitted. “Someone throws a spear and you knock it down out of the air—“

“Ah… Victor.” Suddenly, Achilles put his hand on Louis’ face. “Victor! Victor, I am sorry! I am sorry I didn’t come in time!” Tears stung his eyes, and instinctively he moved forward to press kisses on his beloved’s lips, kissing over and over, the lips, the cheeks, the jawline. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Achilles felt the warm arms come around him, and their bodies pressed together, lips meeting and opening. Their kiss was natural and deep, lingering. They almost fought to get their hands in each other’s hair. They strained against each other, feeling the heat build between their bodies. Achilles gripped his love so tight, Louis gasped in fright, breaking away from the devouring mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Achilles whispered, loosening his hold. He realized his hands were trembling, suddenly. Louis lay in his arms, regarding him with wide dark eyes. 

“It was because I didn’t listen to you,” he said.

Achilles stroked the curls again, shakily. “I mourned. You don’t know. I carried you to the boat, and I tried and tried to heal you—“ a tear slipped from his eyes and into the pillow. 

Louis seemed astonished at his companion’s grief. “But I’m here now!”

Achilles shook his head, closing his eyes, lost in the memory. “I can still see the wound in your chest, and how I tried to close it… it stopped bleeding, but it wouldn’t close.”

Louis moved into his arms again, squeezing him tightly, and Achilles folded around him again, rocking him gently. Their bodies felt melded together. 

“Every time I fail you, every time I lose you, I die inside a little more,” Achilles finally breathed into his love’s ear, his nose nuzzling the dark curls.

Hearing this, Louis grew still, his mind trying to comprehend it all. After a long moment, he rolled over onto his back, pulling Achilles with him. The blond head tucked into his beloved’s neck, and the strong body fairly melted into the mortal form beneath it. Louis held him close, feeling suddenly that he was comforting this powerful being.

“But … what are you?” He whispered into the silky blond hair trailing past his lips.

Achilles didn’t answer for a while. He only lay with his face pressed to Louis’ neck. Finally, his hands under his Hector’s shoulders, fingers digging into the muscles, he spoke quietly. 

“Does it matter what I am? I can only tell you that I don’t die; but you do. Again and again, you die, and I’m holding you, and I feel like the bones in my chest are breaking. Because even though I know I’ll find you again… you won’t know me, you won’t remember, you’ll treat me like a stranger. Over and over. It gets harder every time.”

Louis felt a wave of horror and pity wash over him at these words. Suddenly he felt like the more fortunate of the two of them. Cradling his weary benefactor, he stroked the long blond hair slowly, and rubbed his cheek against the smooth forehead. Outside, the night was still. Those on watch grew quiet so the others could sleep. 

Achilles and his beloved lay warm together, only Louis’ fingers moving absently in the golden strands.

Louis tucked his chin down to regard the face that pressed against his chest. Achilles had fallen into an exhausted sleep, and Louis lay holding him close, face set in its usual worried, thoughtful cast. His life had always been a thing of shadows and echoes. A sense that his existence was one of significance, however hidden, had sustained him through the periods of captivity and rejection, but now there was a strange flavor to this feeling of significance. 

Louis lay quietly, watching the candles burn down, trying to reconcile his impressions of life, his place in the world, and his visions, with the reality of the creature that slept in his arms. He cast his mind back to the only time he had really spoken with his mysterious savior.

Pierre had told him of Achilles. He was an angel, he came to help, but Pierre did not expect him to return. Only young Louis was sure: he had many visions of his angel, his angel was a warrior, and he fought for Louis. Then, years later, that boat ride up the river, the brief conversation in the library. He sensed the angel’s concern and care, but he was confused and disappointed that the angel’s mission was not to make him king. Louis fled back to the Knights, his anger at his father’s abandonment merging with his anger at Achilles: it was all one. 

Eventually, of course, Louis grew resigned to the fact that his visions rendered him unfit for such a heavy responsibility. One couldn’t have a king who occasionally tried to burn a document on his desk that turned out not to exist, or who lashed out with a fireplace poker at a torturer who was not in the room. He forgave Achilles—whoever he was—for not being the hero of his childhood dreams.

And there was something else that had complicated his reaction to Achilles that day in the tower. Only as an adult had he begun to allow himself to admit to a secret component of some of the other visions—memories, they must be, he knew now. He’d blamed himself for the erotic nature of some of those dreams, and had been ashamed of them. Surely it was only his loneliness, or his darker side, that created those intimate scenes.

But now, clearly, Louis had misunderstood nearly everything, and he was faced with the prospect of re-aligning his view of Achilles. He was not simply a powerful warrior created by God for Louis’ personal protection and use. He was a being on his own, self-guided trajectory, driven by his own emotions, and he was… in pain.

Achilles… was in pain.

Louis lay holding him through the night, stroking the long blond hair and marveling at himself for having never conceived of the fact that he was not the only one who felt pain. In his arms was a being that had experienced several lifetimes of pain, and remembered every bit of it. Louis held him and simply comprehended it, as best he could, until finally the candles flickered out, and he drifted off to sleep as well.


	3. The Knights

Achilles awoke in the morning and gazed down at his sleeping love. Every young Hector looked more fresh and vibrant than he remembered. The youth and mortality fairly glowed in his cheeks and lips. Now he truly understood the phrase, “the flower of youth.” It denoted not just the perfection, but the temporary, fragile nature of a healthy mortal in his prime. Achilles drew back carefully, looking intently at the thin, fine skin of Louis’ throat, and the pulse beating there.

Every Hector was precious, but this one was special, Achilles felt. This one remembered. He only remembered scraps and pieces, bits and flashes, but his warrior wanted to grab onto this fledgling understanding like an eagle grabs prey in its talons and flies away. 

But his assessment of the situation was in accord with Louis’ summary: _You appear, it means battle, and danger._ Outside, the Knights were patrolling between the two walls, and he could hear the activity increasing as the sun rose. Clearly the battle between this god’s people and that god’s people was still briskly raging. 

Achilles extricated himself carefully from Louis’ arms, and rose from the bed. He dropped the cloak from his shoulders and investigated a wooden wardrobe near the desk, finding breeches and shirts of his beloved’s that would fit him well enough. There was an old, battered pair of boots, even, that were only a bit too long in the toe. 

Once dressed, with his borrowed cloak over the top of it all, Achilles slipped quietly out of Louis’ chamber and descended the winding tower steps to the ground level, intending to suss out the exact nature of the situation, and plan his extraction of his beloved. Because he had allowed all his previous Hectors to live out their self-imposed dramas, intervening only at the most crucial moments. What had it gotten him? What had it gotten Hector? Was he any wiser, any more fulfilled? Had he made any progress? No. He was still the mournful son gazing at a negligent father, the human sacrifice thrusting himself before the invaders to protect this citizenry or that, as if one more burned city would be the end of civilization. Achilles was tired of it. Enough of these suicide missions. He was going to extract Louis and good luck to the Knights.

In a moment, he was at the gate. Glancing around, Achilles joined the Knights and various other soldiers and mercenaries who gathered. Together, they watched the Egyptian armies of Sultan Khalil filling the horizon of empty beaches and grassy hills around the main road coming East into the city. There were over a thousand of them, word was coming down from those in the towers. They were setting up camps quite calmly, in no hurry to attack. Unlike Agamemnon, they didn’t arrive by water and put themselves to the trouble of fighting for the beach. They simply arrived on foot from the south and began settling in just beyond arrow’s reach.

There weren’t enough Crusaders to march out and meet them, and even if there were, driving them back would do no good. They would simply fall back until the advance withdrew, recoup, and then come forward again. The Knights were probably wise to simply wait until the actual attack began, but…. Achilles looked around. This was doomed, he could see it already. If enemy reinforcements came from the North, there’d be no hope at all. And his task was to drag Louis away from one of the last stands of the Knights Templar, a family of men whom he considered the only people to ever care for him.

Achilles’ shoulders slumped. Unless he sent Louis into sleep, dumped him in a boat (again) and sailed away—earning only his resentment and outrage—they would be fighting with the Knights. Once again, the Sea God had gotten him to his Hector only in the moments before disaster.

“Is it real?” He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see that Louis had found him in the crowd of men standing at the gate. Achilles was sometimes unaware of how his blond hair caught the light.

“Yes,” he said shortly, and looked at his Hector who stood with his Knights, feet planted, eyes serious. “I don’t suppose you would let me take you away from this.”

Louis looked at him with alarm, but said nothing for a moment. The Louis of even twelve hours ago would have protested, astounded, _But aren’t you here to help us?_

Louis now understood the truth: Achilles was not an angel, and he was not here to help guide events for the glory of any god or king. He was here because Louis was here, and his fear was that Louis would die.

Before Louis could formulate an answer, he was summoned from behind by a heavy, powerful looking gentleman with a fierce red beard. Achilles recognized him as the Knight he’d been presented to the night before, who had understood the portent behind his appearance, the one they called Jean. 

“Well, my boy,” Jean said to Louis with great gentleness. “I think it’s time for you to earn your keep.”

Achilles immediately stiffened, and stepped forward as if to insert himself between this Knightly general and his beloved.

“I’m ready,” Louis said immediately, his head tipping forward in that tell-tale manner. “I can fight, you know I can, Jean. You said I was better than you could have dreamed—“

“I know, I know, but—“ here the fierce Knight’s voice dropped very low, “—there are many ways to serve God, and despite what you think, you are very valuable even as you are. Too valuable to spend on wetting the sand, even here.”

Achilles paused, regarding this Jean anew. Clearly he wasn’t a fool.

Jean brought his hands up to his own neck and carefully removed a chain on which hung a large, iron key. He glanced around to see that no one was too close.

“Louis,” he said quietly, “you must take the casket with the Holy Relics north to Sidon. You said this angel can fight? He must go with you. Thibaud and three others will take the larger trove of gold and the jewels if it comes to that, but you must take the small casket now. It holds the most sacred relics—“

Already Louis was protesting, his eyes angry and pleading both. He wanted to fight with his brethren.

“—Louis, Louis, I know, I know,” Jean said, and it was clear he had nothing but love and compassion for his secret king. “But you swore you would obey.”

Now Achilles was nodding. This Jean had just become Achilles’ favorite Knight Templar.

“Where is Sidon? Far from here? North? We’ll do it,” Achilles stated, putting his hands on his Hector to guide him away from the crowds at the gate. “Take the key. Where’s the casket? We can leave right now.”

“Are we giving up hope so soon?” Louis stayed to protest.

“No,” said Jean, waving another Knight over to join them. “If we were, we wouldn’t send you alone. This is a mission of great importance, my boy. More important than your ability to wield a sword or see the future is your ability to take these relics to a place of utmost safety.”

“And Sidon is a place of utmost safety?” Louis answered immediately, eyes burning black. He may have been thrown aside, but he was still raised to be a prince, his warrior thought indulgently.

Jean looked at him and sighed, and then turned to the greying Knight who joined them. 

“Otto, we must send the relics to Sidon with Louis and his angel. Here is the key. Can you take him to the vault, prepare him for his journey? I must speak with his guide in private.”

Otto took the key and placed his hand on Louis’ shoulder. “Come, my Liege. I know. I know. But this is what we hoped for you, you know…” Achilles watched his love being led reluctantly away and realized once again: to the Knights Templar, Louis was their tragic young king. They may have imprisoned him. But they did love him.


	4. Treasure

Jean led Achilles to his stable-like headquarters and closed the door, gesturing wearily to a stool, should the angel like to have a seat. The Knight lowered himself heavily to sit and regard the handsome blond warrior.

“I don’t know who you are, exactly.” Jean began, his heavy red eyebrows low over his deep set eyes. “Louis used to say he had an angel who fought for him, and that when you came, it meant an attack was imminent.”

Achilles shrugged. “Accurate enough.”

Jean looked him over. “You don’t really seem like an angel to me.”

Achilles looked over at the table, where several unlit candles sat. He reached over restlessly and pinched one to life.

“What did you want to tell me,” Achilles asked impatiently.

Jean’s eyes widened a touch. “That’s a useful skill,” he murmured, regarding the candle.

“I am here to save Louis. He believes I’m here to fight his battles for him, but he’s wrong. I’m not. I do it because it pleases him, but I am here for him, to keep him safe, and to take him from danger. Most of the time I have to drag him away.”

“Most of the time?” Jean frowned.

Achilles folded his arms and scowled. The problem with explaining himself was it only led to more questions. 

“If you have nothing to say, I’ll go help Louis prepare for the journey,” Achilles said, rising from the stool. He didn’t like that his Hector was out of his sight.

“No, wait.” Jean relented, “This is what I must tell you. The casket contains Holy Relics that are more than a thousand years old. It includes one of the most sacred items we possess. But the other sacred, holy item that is an important part of the treasure of the Knights Templar… is Louis himself.”

Achilles paused. 

“He is a treasure we protect, and it will be our doom,” the Knight mused. “His brother is king now, and we know already he regards the Knights as too powerful for his liking. If word gets out that there is a Knight Templar named Louis who sees visions, one glance into the crypt of the Basilica of Saint Denis will be all it takes,” Jean said. “The King will come after Louis. So you see, we must protect our treasure from both the Muslims and the Christians. Currently, neither of them are fit caretakers. I am hoping that you are.”

Achilles looked at the man seated there in his white and red tunic, leaning his arm wearily on the table.

“Louis is my Holy Relic. This thing he carries in the casket will be of interest to him, I am sure, and I want him to be content,” Achilles said. “So I will protect him with my life, and he will protect your Relic. But he is right to ask, is Sidon the safest place?”

Jean gazed down at the floor for a moment. “It’s the safest place for the Relics but I don’t know if any place is safe for Louis.”

Achilles inhaled. “I know one place.”

Jean lifted his head. “Don’t tell me where it is. Don’t tell any of us. Take Louis there, and the relics, and never let either fall into the hands of any Sultan or King. When Jesus returns, he will come to you.”

“Returns? Oh yes,” Hermenegild had spoken of that. “Very well. I’ll take him.”

Jean rose and came forward, taking Achilles’ hand in his own. “God be with you,” he said seriously.

“And also with you,” Achilles said politely. “Where did your friend take Louis?”

“The Templars have their own tower, at the north end of the city wall. That is where we keep the Relics, and that is where you must set out from.” Jean paused, and then said, “I advise that you go first to Louis’ chamber and take what you can carry. Take things that matter to him; he’ll be more likely to comply. I know him. He wants to fight with us, he wants to make his stand and prove himself, but we cannot risk him, partly because he is so precious, and partly because of the visions.” 

Jean turned toward the door, adding, “He cares most about the Bible his mother gave him before she died. Get that, and any weapons. Then, just… take him. Take him far away from here. If he and the Relics are safe, I can die easy.”

Achilles knew a moment of kinship suddenly with the stolid, bushy-bearded Knight. He clasped the burly man’s arms with more sincerity. 

“I have long since devoted my life to him,” he said with complete honesty, no shade of cynicism now in his blue eyes. “He is my King.”

The Christian and the Pagan gazed upon each other for a moment more, and then Achilles broke away to return to the tower. 

Once inside, he looked around. What would his Hector want? Louis had already suited up before he left, but there was another sword, and Achilles strapped it on briskly. He glanced around, noting several books… where was the Bible? Ah yes, there it was, looking old, tattered, and utterly decrepit. He scooped it up and put it in a leather satchel he found hanging from the back of the chair. Finally, he noted a small wooden box on the desk, which looked very much like the sort that held tiny mementos. It was locked, which meant it was important, so Achilles packed that as well.

Finally he was satisfied, and turned to leave, bounding down the steps to trot along the buffer zone between the two walls to the North Tower of the Templars. 

Achilles found that having the blessing of the Knights to snatch Louis from this pending disaster pleased him. It made him feel less like a selfish beast who had come only to retrieve his lost lover. It was rather pleasant to feel that he could, in some small way, give some comfort to a few worthy men as well.

As he exited the tower, he looked up at the brightly colored banners that looked even more valiant in the sunlight.

“Here,” he called to one of the knights nearby. “Whose banner is that?” He pointed to the blue lion before the yellow wall.

“Ah, that’s Louis’ banner,” the knight said instantly. “He can’t use his real one, you know.”

Achilles nodded absently, wondering how it came about that his Hector was using—then he smiled broadly. He had introduced himself as Sir Achilles d’Arduina de Canua to Michel’s brother in Tours… had Louis remembered? Achilles felt a little flush of pleasure. 

Then he set out to find the Templars’ tower and see that Louis was ready to ride out of Acre. Achilles’ plan was to get them well clear of the city and any surrounding encampments of enemy soldiers, and then the first fishing boat he saw, it would be sleep, and into the boat, and off to his mother’s island. Three hundred and fifty miles in a fishing boat was nothing compared to the desperate journey he’d made with Henri from Canua. And it wasn’t purely selfish! He was doing it for the Knights Templar!


	5. Leaving Acre

Louis was torn. He stood in the vault beneath the Templar tower with Otto de Grandson and watched him retrieve the small casket: a metal chest bound in more metal yet, and wrapped in silk. The Knights had not made it of gold or silver: precious metal was too soft to protect such contents. Louis could not help but feel awe at the thought of the Relics that would be in his hands. He swallowed repeatedly, telling himself that as rightful King of France, he was worthy at least to protect such holy items. His lineage on all sides was devout Christian nobility as far as the eye could see. It was an honor to be trusted with this task.

But Louis also felt that he was built to fight. His body was strong, his wrists were not delicate, his prowess with the sword had positively startled the Knights, once they’d finally trusted him with one. And these men had saved him, protected him—yes, their protection had taken the form of captivity. But it had never been the brutal captivity of enmity. It had been more like… being restrained by league of somber uncles who could not bear to see him get dirty. Now he was leaving them to almost certain defeat and death.

Yet, it was what they wanted. They all were older then he, and seemed almost to invest their lost youth in his future. It would pain them to see him fall, after all their years of care.

Finally, there was Achilles, his imaginary friend come to life, and he was the most pained of them all. Louis wanted to please him, he wanted to please them all.

Oh, but he wanted to fight as well. His shoulders and back fairly twitched with it.

“You must remove the Knight’s tunic. You should appear as merely travelers or pilgrims,” Otto told him.

Bowing his head, Louis pulled off the tunic, and started to remove the hauberk, but Otto stopped him.

“No, you may need that—here, put on this plain garb over top of it.”

Louis completed his transformation from Knight Templar to humble traveler, but folded the white garment up and tucked it into one of his packs. He feared he would never be able to be among them again. Finally he straightened, ready to receive his sacred burden.

“Keep the casket in this leather bag, and keep it strapped to your body at all times,” Otto instructed, turning Louis to slide the straps onto his shoulders. More straps wrapped around his waist and fastened with small metal clips. “Don’t take it off even to sleep.”

Louis tugged on the straps, settling the casket between his shoulder blades. It was about the size of a baby, and no heavier.

“I’ll guard it with my life,” he promised ardently. But his lips were tight, and his eyes were unhappy.

Otto regarded him affectionately. “You are part of a larger plan, Louis. God saved you from the mechanisms of your corrupted kin. You were too pure for them! France is as fallen as any human state, and they are far from this Holy Land, but you are here, on the very earth our Savior walked.”

“I don’t want to leave my brethren here to what may be a grim fate.” Louis stated flatly.

Otto gave a smile with little true amusement in it. “One may meet a grim fate even in Paris, I assure you. You almost did! Come. Let us find mounts for you and your otherworldly guide. This man, what is his name? Achilles? A Greek then, that’s a good sign. If Sidon falls, make for Cyprus,” Otto added more seriously. Louis nodded.

They ascended the steps into the light and upon exiting the tower, found their mounts prepared and Louis’ angel seated and ready.

“But my things, I have to go back to—“ Louis began.

“I have your Bible and the box from your desk,” Achilles assured him. “There’s nothing else we need. Let us go before the camps of the Egyptians are set up and they begin cutting off all roads.”

Otto nodded. “If the Syrians decide to become involved, only the Maronites stand between us. They are staunch allies. They will protect you if you can make it to Sidon.”

Achilles kept quiet. As far as he was concerned, Jean had cleared him to abscond with his Hector back to the sanctuary of his mother’s island, and Sidon was no longer even remotely on his agenda. But he had no intention of arguing with Louis about it right now. First, he had to pry his love away from this little fortified target. 

He sat aloof on his horse while Louis said his farewells to Otto and several other Knights, and then finally they were exiting from a narrow “needle’s eye” in the wall where it met the tower, and listening to the heavy bars drawing behind them to seal the portal closed again. At last, they were outside the city of Acre, and the empty road north to Sidon stretched before them.

The sea sparkled temptingly to their left, and Achilles turned his head often as they followed the dusty road. All he needed was one fishing boat. But the coast, like the road, was dishearteningly empty.

“So you don’t believe Sidon is the safest place,” he threw out to his love as they trotted along.

“No,” Louis admitted, eyes turning back often to ensure that they were not followed by curious Mamluks.

“Why not?”

“Our ranks are stretched too thin here,” Louis said. “We have an even smaller presence in the north. The only place these relics would be truly safe is in Rome.”

“Why did you not suggest it?” Achilles wondered.

“The Knights are not certain they trust the current Pope,” Louis said.

“Then how would the relics be safer in Rome?”

“Well, they’d be safer from the Mamluks.”

“They wouldn’t be safe from the Pope?” Achilles was having a hard time following this.

“Oh yes, but the Pope might then make certain they are safe from the Knights Templar.” Louis smiled. 

Achilles chuckled. _Oh, it truly never ends,_ he thought. “What if I told you there is a place where they and you would be safe from everything and everyone?”

Louis regarded him with a touch of suspicion. “There is no—wait… is it an island?”

Achilles perked up hopefully. “It is. A small island, very peaceful, very difficult to find, safe from Christians and Muslims and anyone else you can think of. I could take you there.”

Louis looked as though he was casting through his mind for memories. “Is there a woman there with long hair? And two girls who serve her?”

Achilles positively glowed. “My mother and her handmaidens. Yes. And horses, we have horses! And a fountain of pure water, and fruit trees…”

“And a cliff,” Louis added, a faint crease between his eyebrows.

His warrior shifted uncomfortably on his saddle. “Yes.”

His Hector gave him another chary look. “I think that if you take me to that island, I cannot leave again without your help.”

Achilles scowled, unable to think of a reassuring response. What he wanted to say was, _I am done with you leaving that island. You have no further lives that need living if you’re just going to end up in the same mess time after time._

He suspected, however, that a statement like that would cause Louis to whip his horse into a gallop.

“I think we must continue on to Sidon,” Louis added, as if the conversation was over.

Achilles looked to the sea. Still no fishing boats. His scowl deepened. Where were fishermen when you needed them?

“How far is it to Sidon?” He asked Louis.

“About 50 miles. We will travel through the night if it isn’t too dark.” Suddenly, Louis pulled up the reins, bringing his mount dancing to a halt. He stared at the road before them, brows crimped in distress. “Where is the road?”

Achilles halted as well, confused. “It’s before us.”

“No, the… the flowers are covering it,” Louis murmured, blinking and then wiping at his eyes. “It’s those yellow flowers again. Danger. They mean danger.”

Understanding now, Achilles nodded. “I can see the road. Follow me,” he said, and continued on.

Louis followed him quietly for a bit and then caught up with him. “They weren’t real, were they?” 

“No,” Achilles said somberly. “Are the visions so solid that it’s impossible to tell?”

Louis avoided his gaze. “Often. Yes. Sometimes I can tell. If something appears very suddenly…” he smiled. “When I was young, I used to see sheep in the cathedral. I learned not to trust in them.”

“Did you see me? How often did you see me?” Achilles wanted to know.

Louis risked another glance at him. “I saw you often. Sometimes you were pointing a sword at my throat. Other times you were smiling at me. Often you were sitting with us when we were dining. When I was small, I would try to talk to you, and my parents would be frightened. They thought I was possessed, I suppose, or saw spirits.”

Achilles rode along beside him quietly, listening.

“I eventually learned that if I spoke to you, you would look at me, but not answer.”

“Are all your visions silent?” Achilles asked.

“No.”

“Did I never speak to you?” 

“Sometimes, but I usually couldn’t understand the language.” Louis said absently. “Are those boats real?”

Achilles turned to the sea and his heart leapt. “Yes,” he said, and turned to Louis. “Come, let us… go ask them if they have seen armies coming from the north.”

Louis hung back. “I think we should keep to the road.”

“It’s just a short distance,” Achilles said, but his blue eyes were suddenly very intense.

Louis turned his face to him in sudden distrust. Achilles saw his moment slipping away and reached out, thinking _Sleep,_ but he’d played this trick too many times on his Hector, and Louis’ eyes widened in sudden recognition. Leaning away, his beloved dug his heels into his horse’s sides and took off at the full gallop Achilles had feared.

Cursing, his warrior turned and gave chase, and the two of them pounded up the dusty road away from the fishing boats.

Achilles’ frustration gave way to concern when he focused on the road ahead of his Hector; it was no longer empty. There were horses, with riders, and there were several of them. A contingent of six was heading directly toward them, and as they grew closer, their clothing and weaponry suggested to Achilles that they were more likely enemies than friends.

Louis, however, continued galloping directly at them. Achilles’ eyes grew wider; why wasn’t Louis stopping, or returning to him? Could he not see he was heading toward men who were even now drawing their curved swords?

Then he realized: Louis was hoping they weren’t real.


	6. Mamluks

“Louis! They’re real! They’re real, stop!” Achilles shouted, watching as the Mamluks on the road ahead lifted their scimitars. If Louis ran through their ranks, a simple sweep of the sword would send his head rolling.

Achilles rode hard, bent over his steed, hair streaming back, calling his warnings. At the last moment, Louis pulled up and turned around, galloping back to Achilles. With piercing cries of savage glee, the Mamluks pursued him, no doubt thinking that two simple pilgrims alone on the road might make for a few moments’ entertainment.

Achilles drew his sword and veered around Louis, plunging into their midst with metal flashing. He took down one of them in the first pass, but only two stayed to engage him. The other three continued on after his Hector.

The warrior pulled his steed around, his eyes gleaming with purpose. Fighting on horseback was not his style, but fighting of any sort was his business, and Achilles moved quickly. A flash of his blade opened the throat of one attacker, and he ducked to avoid the sweep of the other’s deadly steel. Switching the reins and the sword in a lightning fast move, he thrust his sword into the third soldier and watched him fold around it.

Yanking his steel free, Achilles turned to locate his Hector. His horse was down. The Mamluks had slashed the horse’s throat and Hector was now on foot, fighting mostly to keep them at bay as they circled him on horseback, wide grins on their faces. Apparently they sensed that their prey was unwilling to attack their horses—a weakness they were more than willing to exploit.

Achilles galloped toward them as Louis took a sudden low swipe that sliced through one of his attacker’s legs, causing a spurt of blood to arc through the air, and a shout of rage to accompany it. 

Coming up alongside one of the other attackers, Achilles simply punched out with his bare fist, knocking the fellow off of his horse and onto Louis’ ready sword. 

The third stabbed at Louis’ back, but the metal casket still strapped to him deflected the blow, and Louis turned quickly, lashing up with a slice that slid between the Mamluk’s ribs from the back and sent blood and matter flying with it when it swept through his front. He fell from his horse with a scream of pain.

Within a few moments, it was over. Six dead Mamluks, and two panting pilgrims were left on the road. Louis stared around him for a moment, and then stumbled to his dying horse, a look of misery in his eyes. He knelt at the steed’s head, putting his hands to its nose for a final stroke. There was no need to put it out of its misery; it could not bleed faster. Louis sat silently, watching the horse’s sides heave a final time. The remaining horses galloped off, their ears flat in panic.

Achilles dismounted and came to him, unsure what to say for a moment.

“You fought well,” he finally offered.

Louis sat in the dirt, one hand still lying gently on the fallen steed’s head. He wouldn’t look at Achilles for a moment, and the deepened lines on either side of his nose warned his angel: Louis was angry at both himself and Achilles.

Glancing back, Achilles made mental note of how far the fishing boats were. They were still within sight. He waited for his beloved to get to his feet, but Louis just sat.

Finally, Achilles came and squatted at his side. “You need to trust me,” he said seriously.

At last, his Hector looked at him, that direct stare that seemed to mock the very idea. “I cannot trust you,” his voice was deep and husky, “you aren’t here for the same reasons I am.”

Achilles looked again to where the boats were bobbing in the water. He could drop Louis into sleep right now, heave him up over his shoulder, carry him to a boat and just take him away.

“Yes, you could,” Louis said bitterly, having apparently enough insight and memory to assess Achilles’ thoughts on the matter. Given his general lack of complexity, it wasn’t difficult, but it did startle the warrior.

He blinked at his Hector.

“You could, but I’d hate you,” Louis finished, staring him down with absolute sincerity. 

Achilles stared back, feeling a slow rage build in his chest. All his years of devoted service to his beloved meant nothing? He straightened his powerful legs slowly, rising from the ground, and in the time it took him to stand, the clouds in the sky darkened perceptibly. The wind picked up, moving his blond hair, bringing up whiffles of dust from the road. He stood looking down at his Hector for a moment more, an expanding feeling of bright outrage filling his ribcage.

Then he bent, and grabbed Louis by the wrist. Straightening, Achilles lifted him up off the ground and started walking toward the boats, his hand like a vise. Behind him, Louis twisted his arm and struggled, but Achilles merely tightened his grip and plowed forward, dragging his captive behind him with a look of grim, pale-eyed fury. He wasn’t going to make him sleep if he didn’t want to sleep: let him be wide awake and protesting every inch of the way!

“You’re going to break my arm!” Louis finally shouted.

Achilles did not look back. “Walk with me, or yes, I will,” he promised tersely.

Louis’ eyes were fierce with wounded pride. He turned sideways, placed his foot against Achilles’ hip, and tried to push him away with his leg while pulling with his arm.

Achilles squeezed tighter, pulling toward him with deliberate cruelty.

“Argh!” Louis cried, falling to his knees and then pressing his lips together as if determined to make no more noise. But his wide dark eyes were shocked.

The warrior glared down at him wordlessly. The sky grew darker. Louis’ hand was turning a dark red. 

Louis got his feet under him again and lunged, trying to tackle his captor, but it was like running into a tree. A tree that still had him by the wrist in an inhuman grip.

Achilles turned and resumed dragging his struggling king in an unswerving, simmering march to the sea. Soon, Louis was frantically clawing with his free hand at Achilles’ fingers, trying to loosen the crushing grip.

When they go to the water’s edge, Achilles waded in, boots and all and stared at the nearest boat, thinking _Come._ To the astonishment of the fisherman in the boat, his vessel suddenly turned, entered into what looked like a smooth path in the water, and flowed to the two men on the shore like an animal that has spotted food.

“Please, Achilles, please!” Louis finally cried.

Achilles turned his head to look at the purple hand. He released it and grabbed Louis by the strap of the backpack that held his precious relics. Then he turned his glowering face back to the boat that slid obediently onto the sand before him. Without a word, he took his purse of gold coins from his belt and handed it to the confused fisherman. Then he jerked his thumb in an unmistakable “OUT” gesture.

The owner of the boat hesitated only for a moment, apparently assessing the relative worth of his boat as opposed to the weight of the gold, and then assessing his fighting acumen with the look of the blond warrior who had magicked his boat right out of the sea. He got out of the boat and stood in the ankle deep water, watching in fascinated confusion as Achilles jerked Louis into the boat by his backpack, and then got in himself.

Louis sat hunched and glowering, cradling his damaged wrist to his chest as Achilles leaned over and trailed his fingers in the water, sending his messages to his mother and the Sea God. _Home. Now._ Then he straightened and pulled Louis down to the bottom of the boat, knowing from experience the wind could get fairly cold once the speed built up.

His beloved curled up, teeth clenched in pain and rage, staring at nothing, until Achilles’ own anger abated somewhat. Now that they were en route to safety, the warrior felt himself calming. He lay with his love and took the damaged hand carefully in his, healing it with his eyes closed, moving his fingers over the bones gently. Then he put his fingers in the dark curls and sent Louis into sleep. _Hate me if you will; we are doing this my way._


	7. The Island

Thetis stood on the beach and watched her son heave his unconscious Hector up from the bottom of the boat and step out with his face still set in rather grim lines.   
Achilles brought Louis onto land, lowered him to the sand, and then stood to embrace his mother.

“He’s often uncooperative, isn’t he?” She asked with some amusement. 

“This one is staying,” Achilles bit out, eyes burning blue. “This is the final act. I am done playing my part on this wheel. You kept Luke for hundreds of years, why can’t I?”

Thetis gave him one of her looks, but only said opaquely, “Perhaps you can.” 

Breathing deep to calm himself, her son put his hands on his hips and stared out toward the setting sun for a moment. Then he suddenly lunged forward and pushed the boat violently out to sea, letting it drift away from the island.

“Don’t want him getting any ideas?” his mother asked knowingly.

Achilles shook his head in wordless exasperation. Then he bent and pulled the backpack off of his unconscious love, and with that and the leather satchel over his shoulder, made for the stairs. 

Thetis gestured toward Louis, as if to ask whether her son had forgotten a rather important piece of baggage.

“Leave him there,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t.

His mother watched her irritated son mount the steps to the citadel, and then looked around for a comfortable rock to sit on. There was no point in letting the tide take Hector away while he slept.

The sun sparkled on the vivid blue waters as it had for thousands of years. Gradually, the burning ball moved behind the island, leaving Thetis and her sleeping guest in late afternoon shadow.

Louis slowly came awake, aware that he was on a beach, and it was dusk. He could hear the waves rolling very near by. He rolled over and sat up, looking first at the water, and then at the rising bluffs behind him. Sitting on a rock, regarding him calmly, was a woman he felt he knew.

Despite himself, he smiled at her. There was something charming about finding himself inside one of his visions, as if a dream had come true. He rose and wiped some of the sand from his clothes, and then went to her.

“I know you,” he said.

“I speak very little French,” she replied patiently, and he noted that her accent was Greek. Then she stood and embraced him. “Welcome back, my dear.”

He looked very boyish just then, with his curls in his dark eyes, and wondering smile. Stepping back, he gazed around as if checking to see that the island looked as it did in his dreams and visions. Then he turned, spied the stairs, and pointed to them as if to say, _may I?_

Thetis gestured _of course,_ and they mounted the stairs. 

Once in the courtyard, Louis wandered about slowly, going to the fountain and touching the stones about it lightly, and then to the fruit trees. The two handmaidens emerged from their chambers and went to him, cooing in their barely audible tones, petting his arms in welcome. He stared at them, a little smile playing about his lips.

“You’re sisters, aren’t you?” He asked suddenly.

They froze and blinked at him, and each other, and then nodded uncertainly. Behind them, Thetis raised her eyebrows and looked at them as if this had never occurred to her.

Louis turned back and went to the fire pit, where Achilles was sitting, drinking wine, glowering into the flames in the settling twilight. He went to his warrior, but Achilles was in a mood, and ignored him. Louis hovered for a moment, considering a confrontation, but then he deflated. It was obviously useless. He was here now.

Passing his brooding captor, Louis found his way into their chamber and came to a halt. Fascinated, he stood turning in a circle to gaze at the display of memorabilia from their lives together. 

The handmaids hurried in and lit the fire for him, seeming so attentive and cheerful it occurred to Louis that they had missed him and Achilles, and enjoyed the added society—although how much society the warrior would be tonight, no one could say. Nevertheless, the handmaids stoked up the fire and lit several candles for him.

By the light of the fire, Louis stared at the shield and cross, the rug and the statues, the monk’s robe on the wall… and realized that already, his white tunic with the Templar insignia was mounted on the wall next to it, driven into the cracks in the marble with long nails. His Bible was on the shelf with several other books. The metal casket was shining on a table next to an hourglass, an abacus, and several other smaller items. His box of letters from his mother was there.

Louis went to the casket and felt around his neck for the key. For a moment, he had a terrible fright. The chain wasn’t—then he saw it lying on the table and took it up, intending to open the casket and admire the holy relics he’d been safeguarded with.

He opened the casket reverently… and then stiffened in reaction; there was nothing inside.

Straightening, he left the room in quick strides, going directly to Achilles. His warrior was still sitting on a cushion by the fire pit, drinking and brooding.

“Where are the relics?” Louis demanded.

Achilles tossed him a dark glance. “There weren’t any. It was clearly a ploy to get you out of Acre before you got yourself killed.”

Louis stood paralyzed for a moment in shock. Then he sank onto the cushions at Achilles’ side. 

“There weren’t any?” He whispered, eyes huge and tragic. He was profoundly hurt. The Knights hadn’t trusted him!

“Not that I saw,” Achilles said curtly, staring moodily into the fire.

Louis sat in a disbelieving daze. “It was empty?”

Achilles sniffed irritably. “No, but there was nothing of value in it.”

Louis turned his head slowly to stare at his warrior. “What do you mean, nothing of value? What was in it?”

Achilles took another swig of wine from the simple clay chalice he held, and then looked at it without much regard. Louis’ eyes went from Achilles to the chalice and widened. He inhaled very slowly.

“Was that—“ he couldn’t even finish the question.

Achilles licked his lips slightly and shrugged. “I didn’t say nothing useful, I said nothing valuable.” He raised the chalice for more wine, and one of the handmaids filled it. Louis’ eyes followed the chalice, transfixed. Thetis came and sat with them, offering Louis a chalice of wine also.

Dazedly, he took it in both hands and looked at it. It didn’t look like the one Achilles had. He set it carefully down on the stones.

“Was this also in the casket?” He asked fearfully.

Achilles glanced at it. “No, that’s one of my mother’s.” 

Louis watched in horror as Achilles took another swig from the clay chalice. Then he shot to his feet again, returning quickly to the bedchamber to stare at the long nails Achilles had used to tack his Templar uniform to the wall.

“Oh God,” he muttered. “Oh my God.”

Achilles turned to lean back and peer at his lover through the doorway as he stood in the bedchamber, staring at the nails with his hands over his mouth.

Thetis leaned over a bit too. “What is the matter with him?”

Achilles shrugged grumpily. “I don’t know. He sees things that aren’t there sometimes.”

“Ah,” she said, settling back on her cushions. “I’ll have to see if I can come up with something to help him with that.”

Achilles turned back to the fire. He had gotten his Hector safely back to the island, but he was unsettled and angry, and wasn’t exactly sure why. And tired, suddenly. Terribly tired. 

“Go to bed,” his mother advised. “He’ll be better in the morning.”

Achilles regarded the clay chalice in his hand for a moment and then put it aside. Of all the things for the Knights to obsess over. Finally he decided for once to take his mother’s advice.

Rising, Achilles bade his mother a good evening. Then he turned and paused, looking at the handmaids, who were huddled together a bit further from the fire. _Sisters,_ he thought. _Rabbits,_ he also remembered. He gave them a nod as well, and they both gave a little shiver of delighted surprise. He’d never particularly acknowledged them before.

Retreating to his bedchamber, he pulled Louis from his rather trancelike stare up at the tunic on the wall and pushed him toward the bed like a parent who has had enough for one evening.

“We are going to bed. Yes, I know you slept all the way here, you’re going to sleep again,” he said. Gripping his protesting lover, he closed his eyes for a moment, and then lowered the unconscious Louis onto the bed. He paused to pull off the damp, sandy clothing, and hauberk, and then rolled his Hector naked under the covers. Then he divested himself as well and crawled in beside him. Wrapping himself around his Hector, he fell asleep immediately.


	8. Morning

Louis awoke in the morning with Achilles behind him, wrapping him tightly in solid arms. There was a feeling of comfort and familiarity in the sensation of their bodies entangled. He could feel the strength in those arms, for even in sleep, his adoring captor gripped him convulsively when Louis stirred. Then he felt Achilles slowly nuzzle his nape, as if still half-asleep. Tingles prickled over his neck and arms as the warm breath sent shivers over his skin, and moved his hair slightly against his sensitive ear.

Swallowing, Louis lay limp, pretending still to sleep, while his captor shifted, pulling him tighter against the muscular chest that pressed into his back. A strange warm tension gelled in his belly as Achilles gently pressed his nose and mouth toward the pink ear just in reach. He could hear the faint indrawn breath, and then feel the exhalation ticking his ear, and the urge to squirm could not be resisted.

Achilles pushed his leg between his captive’s long, well-shaped thighs and ground his hips slightly against the pale buttocks that pressed defenselessly against him. Louis heard the faintest deep hum rumble from his throat, and then Achilles leaned over him to mouth his ear with more wakeful intent. Louis felt chills run down his spine, and he parted his lips to draw in more air.

Operating more out of habit than awareness, Achilles reached for his pot of oil on the small ledge near the bed and dipped his fingers deep. He reached down and slicked himself up, and then pressed his hard length between those smooth buttocks, sliding up and down slowly between them. Reaching around, he cradled Louis’ stiffening cock and expertly stroked it, sliding his slick fingers over the head. 

Inhaling quickly, Louis found himself pushing his hips back against his lover, rocking with him, glorying in the feel of that warm hand fondling him. He stretched out luxuriously and arched his back, his entire body flushed with a warm, instinctive feeling that it knew what to do, and knew what it wanted. Suddenly all his skin seemed feverish with a hunger for Achilles, as if he had waited for a very long time for these hands to come and claim him. 

Achilles buried his face in the dark curls, inhaling the scent of his Hector. Beneath his stroking hands, he felt his beloved squirm and respond, throwing his arms open wide and reaching back to tangle his fingers in the long blond hair. Oh, how Achilles loved his Hector with his arms up over his head and his mouth open, utterly submitting. He wanted to penetrate him, but felt it was too soon, and contented himself with sliding up and down in that hot cleft, rubbing hard against his sensitive opening. With his free hand, he manipulated the engorged cock, and reached lower to handle his balls with just a hint of roughness.

Louis groaned and bucked his hips harder against his angel, trying to come, lost in sensation. Achilles sank his teeth gently into that long neck that stretched out obediently for his mouth to ravish. They rocked together firmly, the muscles of their hips flexing in unison. 

Finally, when Achilles was near, he tangled his free hand in the dark curls and pulled his beloved’s head back slowly, the hand on his cock growing rougher and faster. Feeling the orgasm throb through the hard flesh, Achilles rolled his captive over and mounted. He thrust between the smooth buttocks until he came, sending his seed over Louis’ back in a creamy ribbon. 

Gasping, he lowered his head to rest between his love’s shoulder blades for a moment. Then, when he was able, he slid free and groped about for a towel. When they’d dried themselves, Louis lay on his back with open arms, and Achilles crawled into them, utterly content. This was what he’d yearned for: willing Hector, who knew him, who had memories, who was safe in his bed on his island. He sank down on his beloved, put his face back in that neck, and sighed, feeling the arms he adored wrap around him tightly.

They lay in the morning light together, sated. Achilles sank back into a light doze. Louis lay beneath his warm weight, gazing over his shoulder at the tunic on the wall, held there with long, large nails. After a bit, he ran his hands up and down the curved golden back.

“Mmm,” Achilles responded, not moving.

“Are we in Greece?” 

“Mm hmm,” Achilles was still nuzzling lazily.

“Where did you leave the chalice?” Louis asked in a whisper.

“By the fire,” his lover mumbled.

Louis subsided back into silence for a moment, holding the beautiful form against him. The delicious weight crushed him to the bed, and he realized that he very much enjoyed the feeling of Achilles lying full on him. 

“The first time we were together, when was it?” Louis asked quietly, bringing his hands up to stroke the yellow hair.

“In Troy, down by the pool under the palace.” Achilles said quietly, his lips moving against his Hector’s neck.

Louis tangled his fingers around a strand of long, pale hair. “How did we meet?”

“My people were at war with your people. We met on the battlefield.”

Louis’ fingers stopped moving. “What?” He asked in disbelief. “We were enemies?”

“When we fought, I bested you,” Achilles leaned up on his elbows to look down at his prince, a rather gloating smile curving his lips. “I had you down, just like this. But I couldn’t bring myself to hurt you.”

“But how did we get to know each other? How did we become lovers?” Louis lay gazing up at him with those dark eyes.

Achilles felt a slight pang of guilt in his gut. He found that he did not want to describe his techniques in bringing Hector under his control.

“You don’t remember?” He asked instead.

Louis shook his head, eyes never leaving the blue ones that looked down at him so inscrutably. 

Achilles’ smile grew and he stroked his Hector’s arm thoughtfully. “I let you take me prisoner,” he decided. It was true, in a way. He was most certainly this man’s prisoner. Happily, his human lover had no idea the power he had.

Louis gave a short laugh of amazement. “And I did?”

Achilles lay back down on him, burying his face in the dark curls over one ear. “You certainly did,” he whispered. “You made me your slave, and I am your slave to this day.”

Immediately, that struck Louis as untrue, and rather unpleasant. Of course, he had no idea what his lover really meant, and took the remark at face value. And at face value, it had a feeling to it that did not digest well. 

“I would not do that,” Louis said suddenly, staring sternly at the ceiling over Achilles’ shoulder. “You aren’t telling me the truth.”

Achilles seemed to stop breathing. Then, with an abrupt mood, he veritably flung himself out of the bed, landing on his feet with fists clenched and eyes blazing. He gave his Hector an angry glance and then snatched up his tunic, threw it on, and left the bedchamber with such speed, Louis was left blinking in the bed. _He lied to me,_ he thought.

After a moment, Louis tentatively slipped from the bed, almost as if he was not certain that this was allowed him. Keeping a sharp eye on the doorway, he picked about the pile of clothing lying on the stone floor in a shaft of sunlight from the balcony. He shook the dry sand out of his wrinkled shirt and trousers, and drew them on. Then, barefoot, he left the bedchamber and went looking for the chalice.

Just as Achilles had said, it sat discarded by the remains of last night’s fire. Louis took it up reverently in both hands and went to the fountain to wash it. When he’d shaken it dry, and wiped the last drops with his shirt, he glanced around, seeing no one else awake yet, and returned to the bedchamber to tuck the chalice away in the small metal chest. 

Then he turned and tried to pry the nails out of the wall that held up his tunic, but Achilles, with his superior strength, had driven them deep into the cracks of the marble, and Louis could not retrieve them. With a shudder, he gave it up, stared mournfully up at them for a moment, and turned back to the metal chest. He locked it with the key that still lay there, and then wondered what to do with the key. He wanted it where Achilles couldn’t find it, but someone else could, with the right instructions. At last he put it inside his Bible, on the shelf, and stood looking around at the room. Well, he thought, glancing up at the nails again. They were at least safe here, on this island. Safe from the Mamluks, and the Pope. Not safe from Achilles.

Returning to the courtyard, Louis made his way to the fruit trees and picked a pear to eat.

“Good morning,” came a feminine voice behind him, speaking in careful French.

He turned to see Thetis, and smiled automatically. At some level, he thought of her as a motherly figure, and Louis had lost his own mother at a tender age.

“Good morning,” he replied, holding the pear cupped in his hands, his head slightly bowed over it.

Thetis tipped her head slightly, gazing at him. All the Hectors she had met had seemed to her identical in looks and demeanor, and unlike Achilles, she did not particularly differentiate between them. Oh, this one had been more cynical, and that one had been more eager, but she was certain it was the same personality, simply at different stages of his life. Young Hector was sweet, older Hector grew a bit jaded, but this was to be expected.

This newest Hector had that yearning look she remembered well.

“Are you well?” She asked politely.

“Yes,” he said hesitantly, “but I am worried about my friends.”

Thetis nodded understandingly. “Would you like to see them?” She gestured toward her wing of the citadel. “I have a… thing.”

With a shy bow, Louis allowed her to lead him down the decayed colonnade, and he noted the cracks and vines with curious eyes as he munched on his pear. In the corner of an empty room with only a partial roof over it, she displayed a crystal ball on a marble stand, and he went to it, his dark eyes wide.

“You put your hands like this,” she demonstrated. “Think of whom you want to see.”

Louis threw the remainder of his pear out between the columns into the ivy and then wiped his hands carefully on his shirt before touching it. Thetis smiled, watching the curly dark head leaning over the ball. He really was a nice young man, she thought absently. Together they gazed at the ball, watching it cloud over, and then clear.

Between his hands, Louis could see the hot, sandstone walls of Acre, and the thousands of enemy combatants surrounding it. Between the walls, he could see the milling Knights, armed and alert, constantly glancing up at the towers where the watch kept an eye on the situation. 

Louis gave a mournful sigh, shaking his head. Thetis leaned in to gaze at the Knights with a calm eye, but her gaze sharpened suddenly, and she pointed to a Knight with long blond hair, darker than her son’s, with bold features and a strong jaw.

“Who is that?” She demanded, paling.

“Guillaume de Beaujeu,” Louis said. “He’s from Toulouse. He used to talk to me sometimes, when the visions were more frightening than usual. I wish I were at his side now.”

Thetis stared at the ball, and then backed away a few steps, her face troubled. “But they are not yet fighting,” she said, almost as if convincing herself.

“No. The Mamluks will tunnel under the walls, and attack them with the trebuchet--“

“The what?” Thetis was fingering the shell necklace uneasily.

“Trebuchet. It’s a machine, it hurls large rocks at the walls and towers. When the walls start to crumble, then they will attack. Weeks only.” Louis told her, his dark eyebrows set at their usual angle of gentle worry. 

“I see,” Thetis said, her eyes fixed on nothing. “I see.”


	9. Tension

Achilles prowled along the top of the bluffs under a low, grey sky. The clouds had gathered over him, summoned by his mood. He was frustrated. Louis had just enough memories to render him irresistible, but not particularly malleable. But that wasn’t the only problem. Something niggled at the warrior’s mind. Something about Louis.

There was something… unfinished about him, Achilles finally admitted to himself, as the clouds rolled restlessly over his head. He was Hector, but… Achilles stared down at the water from the cliff’s edge, trying to identify what he was feeling. 

Louis had been kept cloistered… but so had Philip. Yes, and Philip had also had that unsatisfied, plaintive aura. His original Hector had been full and fierce, thoughtful, reflective… mature. The responsibilities he’d carried—successfully—and the respect he’d been accorded as Prince of Troy had developed his spirit to its deepest flavor. He’d loved his city. He’d been comfortable in his role. And when he’d become Aeneas, other than keeping an open mind and resisting the arrogance that can come with power, he had not questioned himself in excess. Had Philip ever attained that degree of self-confidence? No. Had Hermenegild?

Achilles inhaled, turning to stare toward the horizon, letting the breeze lift his hair slightly away from his face. Hermenegild had possessed confidence—steely confidence—but he was always slightly bitter about his fate. Achilles had kept both Philip and Hermenegild safe, but he had never allowed them to ride into the teeth of destiny and seize their moment. Such a thing would have meant instant death, most likely. The warrior had no interest in his beloved’s psychological development if it could only be reached in his dying breaths. _Like Victor._

Karan and Xander had been relatively happy, Achilles had felt. Strange, the ones with the most humble lives being the most content. Then Henri, Achilles winced, rubbing his chest at the pang of sorrow there. He could have been happy, if his brute of a lover hadn’t struck him that fatal blow, and then transported him to the island to stave off the inevitable with managed magic. He’d been the saddest, quietest Hector, once he was wounded. 

And now Louis, who seemed somehow like a fledgling eagle struggling to break out of its egg. What was the egg, the protective shell he could not escape? Or, if he had escaped it, were his wings bent and crippled from too tight an encasing? By the Knights Templar, trying to protect him from the royal family, and the visions as well? Was Achilles also limiting him? He gave a silent snort through his nose: damn right he was limiting him. Because how could he be set free?? How could he be a fighter with hallucinations? And what if someone identified him?

“The Rightful King of France,” Achilles mused to himself, looking behind him at the rolling slopes of the island. “Kept like a jewel in a box.”

A shiver ran through him. Such musings were not his usual pastime, but he was feeling an uneasy discontent in his belly. It made no sense: he had his Hector. His Hector had memories—some. They were here, back in his home, his beloved was safe.

But something was wrong with it, Achilles finally admitted to himself. Something was wrong with it. Head low, eyes narrowed in thought, he made his way slowly back toward the citadel.

When he returned, he found that the handmaids had prepared a repast of fresh-caught fish, and vegetables from the garden. Louis was seated by his mother near the fountain, eating ravenously from a wooden bowl. When Achilles approached, they both turned to him.

“We have to go back,” Louis informed him seriously, and then turned his attention back to his food, apparently believing that, having informed his benefactor of his decision, he could return to his meal while arrangements were made.

Achilles went to the pot over the fire and scooped out some of the fishy stew into a bowl of his own.

“No, we don’t,” he said grumpily, and settled on a cushion nearby with his meal.

Louis finished his food and got up for more. Apparently the Knights had been on a sparing diet while in Acre.

“We do. The Mamluks have trebuchets now. We know their maneuvers; they’ll lay siege for a month and then attack, and that wall will come down,” Louis said, filling his bowl again.

“Then there is nothing we can do,” Achilles said stubbornly, glowering down into his bowl.

Thetis handed Louis a chalice when he returned to his perch by the fountain. He thanked her and drank from it, and then turned back to Achilles.

“Is there anyone else on the island beyond we five?” Louis asked suddenly.

Five? Achilles thought, and then glanced over at the handmaids, who were weeding the garden. Oh.

“No. Why.” He was being very short with Louis, which was not his usual way with his Hector, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“I see a pregnant woman sometimes,” Louis said thoughtfully, looking toward the path to the stables.

“Is she very young?” Achilles asked.

“No… tall, mature, long black hair,” Louis reported, still looking.

Achilles nodded. “Zoe. She died giving birth to twins.”

Louis looked at him. “My wife?”

“Yes,” Achilles finished his meal and then got to his feet, restless. It wasn’t like him to be restless on the island.

Louis, finally sated, put his bowl aside. “We have to go back to Acre and help the Knights Templar,” he said firmly.

“Do you remember nearly riding into a party of enemy scouts?” Achilles asked testily. “Because you thought they weren’t real?”

Louis lowered his head, but his eyes, growing angry, were directed up at his savior. “If you were with me, you could tell me what is real and what is not.”

“And you’d listen?” Achilles asked mockingly. “You wouldn’t listen!”

Now Louis was on his feet, as restless as Achilles. “I knew it. I knew when you arrived at Coudray Keep. I said it then, you are only here to move me from one prison to another.”

He moved past Achilles, who reached out and grabbed his wrist, “Don’t run off—“

“Oh, by all means, break this one too!” Louis blazed at him, eyes wide, but making no attempt to pull away. He’d learned now that this was impossible.

“I might be able to help with the visions,” Thetis said suddenly. She had been watching their exchange so quietly, they’d rather forgotten she was there.

Achilles flung the captured arm away from him pettishly. “No. Don’t. I like his visions; they’re memories.”

But Louis went to her eagerly. “Can you?”

Thetis managed to combine a look of coyness with a touch of guilt. “I have been experimenting with some herbs,” she admitted, and then picked up the chalice he’d already drunk from. “Here, finish this.”

Louis reached for it, but Achilles, eyes wide, moved past him with startling speed and snatched the cup from his mother’s hand, throwing the liquid out onto the grass.

“No!” He shouted, glaring at her.

Thetis blinked at her son in astonishment, and then straightened her back and fixed him with a warning stare.

He backed away a few steps, but only a few. Looking from his mother to his lover, his chest rose and fell with agitated huffs. Finally, he turned away, wavered, and then smashed the cup to the stones, shattering the clay. Without giving either of them another look, Achilles ran to the steps, fled down them to the beach. He paced for a moment, and then whipped off his tunic and plowed into the choppy water, diving under it to settle on the bottom and brood.

By the fountain, Thetis turned to Louis and said, “I will help you. But I would like something in return. This Guillaume de Beaujeu… tell me more about him.”


	10. By the Fire

Achilles emerged from the water when he was finally calm again. It was early evening, and the sun had set. The sky was still red in the west. He had not come to any conclusions about what to do, or what he wanted. He only ascertained to himself exactly what his situation was: he had his lover on the island, but his mother was going to tamper with Louis’ memories. He had no illusions that he would be able to stop her. Very well. _Tamper away,_ he thought. Had he not done the same with Hector? Presumably Thetis would do it with much less wanton abandon than he was guilty of.

But he wasn’t happy about it. He sat on a rock, naked and dripping on the beach for a while, wringing his sodden hair glumly. When he was more or less dry, he pulled his tunic on again and trod wearily up the steps to find his Hector.

There was no one in sight when Achilles went to the fire pit. The handmaids had lit it and cleaned up the shards of clay, but he padded through the gardens, and in and out of his chamber, to find no one. Expanding his search, he checked some of the empty rooms, and made his way toward his mother’s chamber. Then he remembered her crystal ball, where she’d shown him Xander and Karan, and where Henri had monitored the progress of Canua Keep.

Sure enough, they both were there, hunched over the glowing ball in the shadows of twilight’s gathering gloom. When he approached, Louis and Thetis both straightened quickly, as if they had been caught in some guilty act. Thetis dropped her hands from the ball, and the glow faded to black. The two of them regarded him warily.

Then Thetis gave Louis a look, and retreated silently to her room. Louis passed Achilles and went along the colonnade back out to the courtyard, and settled on a cushion by the fire.

With a sigh, Achilles followed him, sitting down at his side.

“I am sorry that I hurt you,” Achilles said, after a moment. He risked a glance at his Hector. Apologies did not come easily to the warrior.

“I know,” Louis said quietly, looking as though he were deep in thought.

“We can’t go back,” Achilles told him earnestly. “You will surely be killed in Acre. It will fall, and you will die.”

Louis nodded slowly. “When I went to Acre, that was what I expected would happen. I had accepted it. I was at peace with the prospect—to die fighting with the men who have been like a family to me, fighting for our beliefs… this did not seem like such a tragic fate. To die with honor…”

Achilles gave a restless movement, rejecting this. “I once thought the same. But I was a child. I didn’t know how pointless, how endless it is. What a waste it is. How little it accomplishes. As for the Knights Templar being your family… I am your family! I am the one who has been there for you again and again!”

Louis turned his head and regarded his companion in the firelight. “Do you love me?”

Achilles’ throat closed up. In all their years together, in all his incarnations, his Hector had never asked him that so directly before. It wasn’t the sort of conversation they had been prone to. 

“Why do you think I do this?” He finally asked in exasperation.

Louis still looked at him, head tipped plaintively, dark eyes searching. “But can you say it?”

Achilles huffed impatiently and turned his stormy gaze to the fire. “I’d rather show it.”

“Then come back to Acre with me. Fight at my side. And if I fall, let your face be the last thing I see,” Louis told him in a quiet, steady voice, eyes unwavering.

Achilles shook his head, feeling tears rising. “No,” he said huskily.

Louis reached over and ran his warm hand gently up and down his captor’s back. “I feel safest when you’re with me,” he said.

Achilles swallowed and did not answer.

His Hector turned to him, coming up onto his knees facing his angel. He reached out with both hands now, pushing Achilles to lie down on the cushions. Startled, the warrior allowed himself to be pushed back, and watched with guarded eyes as Louis moved on top of him and lay his full length on the muscular form. In the silence of the night, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire, and Louis’ kisses on Achilles’ neck and throat.

Gradually, the warrior let his eyes close, and he spread his arms, letting Louis mouth his way over his neck and chest. Their hips pushed against one another slowly for long, luxurious minutes. Then Louis lowered his face to the golden belly, pressing kisses on the rippling muscles there, kissing his way down to the navel, and the soft fur that trailed down and spread.

Achilles buried his fingers in the dark curls, trying to remember not to be rough, not to grab, but when Louis’ mouth engulfed the sensitive head of his hard cock, he gasped, the full-throated gasp of pleasure so intense it almost hurt. Rolling his head to stare at the fire, he let Louis’ lips and tongue stroke and suckle his hardness while his beloved’s arms clamped over the strong thighs. Louis seemed uninterested in his own pleasure tonight, remaining down in his captor’s lap, swallowing down the straining length and drawing off, and then sucking it down again.

Achilles arched his back luxuriously, chills running down his arms as he felt his lover’s tongue slide teasingly over his hot flesh. Finally, Achilles’ eyes closed and he writhed, fingers digging convulsively into the dark curls as his Hector brought him to the brink and then swallowed him down again while his release thrummed through him.

When Achilles finally recovered himself, he found his Hector coming up to cradle him from behind. 

“Can we just lie out here for a while?” Louis whispered. “I like to see the stars.”

Sleepily, Achilles nodded, sinking back against his beloved, feeling the hands stroking his arms, and coming up to run slowly through his blond hair. They nestled together quietly, their legs entwined. Louis breathed deeply against his angel’s neck, wanting Achilles to drift off to sleep there by the fire. He could see the slow blink as the blue eyes grew heavy and vague. 

The night cooled, and the stars rotated gradually over the citadel.

Finally, in the wee hours, Thetis came on silent feet with a small bundle of burlap in her hand. The handmaids followed her quietly. She gestured to Louis that now was the time, and he eased himself from the cushions where Achilles still slept soundly.

Passing the bundle to the handmaids, she turned and made for the steps leading down to the beach, Louis moving carefully behind her, making no sound. 

The handmaids waited, seeming almost as though they were counting to themselves. Finally, as a small fishing boat launched from the island, the two people in it turned back to see a faint cloud of thick, white smoke billow slowly up from the courtyard of the citadel.

“About a month,” Thetis predicted, and then turned back to Louis. “He’ll be angry with both of us.”

Louis nodded pensively. “But I have to do this.”

Thetis turned resolutely toward the east. “So do I,” she said.


	11. Return to Acre

By May, the situation at Acre was essentially hopeless. The siege was clearly nearing its culmination. Violent skirmishes at the wall grew steadily in intensity over the following weeks. The trebuchets hurled stones day after day, tearing chunks from the thick walls, toppling towers, occasionally taking out some unfortunate knight or soldier who hadn’t leapt quickly enough from his perch. The Knights Templar still guarded the gates to the city, and occasionally surged out _en masse_ to battle a unit encroaching upon one weak point or another. But the Mamluks seemed to have an endless supply of fighters, and the city was surrounded.

When Achilles arrived, outbound ships were loading, and the wealthier citizens were desperately paying whatever they could to buy passage to Tartus, or Sidon. He arrived via Cyprus, having joined the troops of Henry II, and came ashore with his d’Arduina shield before him, glowering about him at the appalling situation. His unit did not go into the city immediately, but mounted an attack directly on the Mamluk encampments nearest the water. Achilles threw himself into battle, intent upon losing his misery and rage in violence, and for several hours, succeeded in drowning his thoughts in blood. His sword swept and chopped as wickedly as ever, and the enemy fell before him like wheat he was harvesting. The troops he fought with regarded him with dazzled admiration.

“Who are you?” asked one soldier, panting and blood spattered at his side.

“Achilles,” he said calmly, and swept a Mamluk’s head off with another swing of his sword.

“Indeed,” the soldier breathed, apparently accepting immediately and without effort the idea that an ancient Greek demi-god had returned to help the Christians. Why shouldn’t he?

Eventually, the Mamluks under Achilles’ attack abandoned their camps and retreated further inland, but Achilles had no illusions that their contribution could save Acre. He turned and eyed the wall. It looked like a honeycomb. As the Christian troops of Henry II made their triumphant entry into Acre, civilians fought to push past them in their frantic bids to escape. The fleet from Cyprus, despite the minor victory today, was too little, too late. Anyone with eyes could see it.

Once inside the gate, Achilles set about looking for Louis and his mother. The fear dancing along his back and shoulders was a foreign feeling, and for once it was more for Thetis. Off the island, she was weak. Achilles was uncertain if she had any powers at all to protect her. Whatever had possessed her to help Louis make his escape, _and go with him,_ Achilles did not know. The handmaids had only been able to squeak out the information that they had left by boat.

Now he prowled along the collapsing wall around panic-stricken city, brooding blue eyes scanning constantly, looking for his loved ones. It was not a familiar feeling. It was only when his gaze rose to the top of the wall, and he spotted a man with dark blond hair and harsh features squinting out at the Mamluk encampments did comprehension wash over him. Of course... Thetis had a Hector of her own to reclaim. 

Achilles shook his head and sighed. What a pair of love-struck gods they were, in thrall to these mortals. Any residual anger at his mother died away when he saw his Odysseus on top of the wall, his sword hanging loosely at his side. _How we all come together, again and again,_ he mused, and headed in that direction. Where there was Luke, there would be Thetis, and hopefully Louis was with her.

Pushing through the milling chaos of incoming soldiers and outgoing civilians, he searched until he found his mother, leaning quite calmly against the wall just beneath where her long lost lover stood guard.

When Achilles approached, she looked up from her contemplations and their eyes locked. She looked a bit wary, as if she expected him to rage out at her, but he only drew near, eyed her for a moment, and then asked, “Does he know you?”

“He hasn’t seen me yet.” Thetis replied, shoulders relaxing a bit. 

“Why not?” Achilles asked, glancing around him at the noisy mayhem of the dying city.

“I haven’t chosen to present myself just yet,” his mother answered with some dignity, but her elegant hand was still toying nervously with her necklace. “This doesn’t seem the best time for it,” she added wryly, watching a riderless horse gallop past, eyes rolling. A man was chasing the horse, carrying what belongings he could under one arm.

A shout of alarm was the only warning, and a wave of arrows flew over the wall and arced to the earth. Soldiers threw up their shields. Civilians skittered out of the way with shrieks of terror. Achilles and Thetis, close enough to the wall to be in no danger, watched the rainfall of arrows embed themselves into the dirt nearby and resumed their conversation.

“Is Hector here?” Achilles asked, his eyes searching hers with just a touch of accusation.

“Oh, yes, he’s around here somewhere. He’s been fighting. He’s doing very well, you know. He’s an excellent fighter.” Thetis informed him rather proudly.

“And the visions?” 

“Ah, well, I gave him something to help with that. He wanted it,” she said, as if to defend against the recriminations she felt sure were seething in her son’s head. 

Achilles did indeed simmer for a moment. “You took his memories?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I did not,” she said coolly. “I improved his vision.”

Achilles stared at her uncomprehendingly. 

She looked back, thinking not for the first time, that her son was not terribly bright. “I improved his regular vision, so that his _visions_ are fainter and paler by comparison. That way he can tell them apart.”

Achilles blinked in surprise. That really was rather clever of her, he admitted to himself. 

“I’m going to search for Louis,” he decided.

“Go up to where Luke is. From there you can see everywhere, I’m sure. And Louis tends to stay close to Luke.” Thetis suggested.

“What exactly are you waiting for?” Achilles asked her curiously.

“I don’t know,” she mused, eyes rather distant. “But when it happens, I will know.”


	12. Guillaume

Louis stood on the wall, his shield before him, sword in his right hand. Gazing down at the milling groups of Mamluks readying their long ladders for another attempt to climb the wall, he mentally blessed Thetis for her wondrous potions. Several times now, since their return, he’d been momentarily startled by a vision. But now he had learned to stare at it, judge the vividness of the colors, and dismiss it as unreal. He could fight with his brethren now.

To his right, Guillaume approached, pointing to the West. “That’s where the archers are hiding. That last shower of arrows came from there.”

Louis nodded, making a mental note. “We need someone assigned to monitor them, and call out a warning when—“

They both saw the sudden launch of another spate of arrows.

“Shields up! Shields up!” Guillaume cried hoarsely, and all the Knights along the wall knelt automatically, throwing their shields over their heads. The sound of the arrows hitting was like hail on a tin roof. After a moment, the shower was over.

When the Knights rose back to their feet, a line of young monks clambered up and began passing up buckets of hot tar to throw down on the Mamluks preparing to climb the ladders. This was rather a timing issue, for it was best to throw the tar when the climbing had begun, but if one waited too long, the tar cooled.

Guillaume and Louis watched as the monks positioned themselves along the wall, buckets at the ready.

“I do wish you had not returned.” Guillaume said quietly, his hand on Louis’ shoulder. “You fight like a seasoned professional, and are gifted and worthy. But that is what makes you so valuable, even apart from your birth. To lose you here on this last stand, this lost cause, makes me ill.”

Louis smiled slightly. “You are so certain I’ll be lost?”

Guillaume shook his head, looking over the vast encampment of invaders. “I think we all will be lost.” He sighed. “And who is that woman you brought with you? She looks very familiar to me, yet I know I’ve never met her. I think she’s a witch.”

Louis’ grin grew. “But she’s a very good witch.”

Guillaume cut him a look. “There are no good witches. However,” he paused, and smiled slightly, “I do see that there are beautiful ones.”

From the corner of his eye, Louis could see Achilles approaching along the top of the wall. He did not look, however. Visions of Achilles were appearing before him daily now, and the first few had caused his heart to leap with gladness and fright, almost simultaneously. The gladness was the instinctive reaction to seeing his companion, guide, lover, savior, and friend appearing at his side. Louis admitted to himself now; he felt complete when Achilles was with him, as if they were two halves of a whole. The fear, however, was a belated reaction when he remembered that he’d drugged and abandoned his other half, and the warrior was likely to be angry about it.

That Achilles had drugged his Hector with sleep many times over the centuries would not be likely to mitigate his outrage: he’d never done it to leave him! Only to save him. So yes, there was undoubtedly resentment in store for Louis. And yet, he had to do it. He could not simply languish on a nearly deserted island being the toy of his mate. Not while his brethren, the Knights who had saved him from his family, and raised him, and protected him, were fighting for their lives.

The vision drew up to his side silently, and Louis sighed, wishing it were real. 

On his right, Guillaume looked over. “Is that your angel?”

Louis’ dark eyes grew wide and he turned and looked fully at Achilles, realizing now that the vivid bronze skin, yellow hair, and accusing blue gaze were indeed quite present. His lips parted wordlessly and his arms lifted in reaction. After a moment’s hesitation, he bowed his head in a gentle, questioning greeting, his eyes never leaving the warrior’s stern visage.

“You came back,” was all he could think of to say.

Achilles looked at his Hector, noting the proud stance, the confident grip on his sword, the renewed look of peace in his eye. This was Hector as he was meant to be, meeting the enemy, fighting with his fellow man, facing his doom with honor and courage. He shook his head in defeat and said, “Have you any spears?”

“Spears?” asked Guillaume attentively, “the tower guards have them. I’ll get you one.” He moved down the wall toward the nearest watchtower, leaving the lovers alone for a moment.

They regarded each other in silence. Achilles’ eyes searched his Hector’s, which gazed back with both love and a certain wary stubbornness. He knew it was pointless to recriminate. His Hector had escaped him, and was not sorry. Happy to see him out here in the real world; not happy to be taken to exile and kept against his will. And in his Hector’s gaze he saw both the expectation of blame, and a soft acceptance of that blame, but still… no apology. Achilles sighed. Both understood their situation now, it seemed: Hector was not a pet, nor was Achilles the arbiter of his destiny. Hector had a path to follow, and Achilles was determined to interfere, but there must be a limit to his interference. Neither of them knew what to say about the matter, however.

Finally, Louis said, “You must not drink from that cup again.”

Achilles gave a brief, dry huff of amusement. “Fine.” He looked out over the invaders’ camps. “Have you a plan when Acre falls?”

“If I don’t fall with it?” Louis’ eyes were large, dark, and utterly at peace. He tipped his head in that Hector-like way, his lips curving into that sweet smile Achilles loved. The breeze moved his dark curls around, and Achilles felt that familiar ache in his chest.

“Yes, if you don’t fall,” he said flatly, mentally vowing that there would be no falling while Achilles was at his side.

“The last stronghold the Knights control is on the island of Arwas, near Tortosa. Far north of here. I suppose any survivors will gather there, if they don’t retreat to Cypress, or return to France.”

Behind them, Guillaume returned, carrying a spear. He overheard the last comment. “I wouldn’t advise returning to France. The king has developed a strange animosity toward the Knights. I have a feeling that he has heard rumors of your survival, and our protection of you.”

He handed the spear to Achilles, who moved away for a moment to where the Mamluks were pushing a long ladder up against the wall. Coolly, the warrior reached down with the spear, hooked the ladder on the flared edge of the blade, and yanked it up out of their reach with his powerful arms. Then he flung the ladder behind him into the city, causing civilians and soldiers alike to dive out of the way with cries of alarm.

Guillaume’s hard face split into an appreciative grin. “That’s a handy approach,” he commented, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

Below them, the Mamluks roared in rage; ladders took some time to put together. Achilles smiled down at them, and then reached down between his legs and gave his balls a taunting jiggle in their direction. A couple of rocks flew up his way, but he blocked them easily with his shield, and then prowled back to Louis.

“Your strength is incredible,” Guillaume told him admiringly. “But I did not know angels taunted men in that particular manner.”

Achilles was about to answer when his shield arm flew up behind him, seemingly of its own accord. Louis blinked at the strange motion, and then realized that another bevy of arrows were incoming.

“Shields up!” He cried, and the Knights along the wall hunkered down again. The arrows pelted down like hail. To his right, he heard Guillaume make a peculiar sound, like a long, drawn-out sigh. When the arrows were spent, and they rose again, Guillaume turned and slowly walked toward the steps as if to descend the wall.

“Where are you going?” One of the nearby Knights called out. “Are you leaving us?”

Guillaume, his face pale, said, “I am hit. It is over for me,” and continued to the ladder. 

Puzzled, Louis and two other Knights went to him, steadying him as he descended the steps. Achilles remained on the wall with the spear, ready to deal with any new approaches by ladder.

Louis drew close to his friend, holding his arm, and noting his pallor. No arrows were visibly protruding from him, and Guillaume seemed unable to speak as he made his increasingly unsteady way to the ground. 

When he reached the dirt of the city street, his eyes lifted to the woman who stood by the wall as if she were waiting for him. She straightened alertly and came to him with hesitant steps, as if uncertain of her welcome. Guillaume took two shaky steps toward her, seeming both confused and apologetic.

“I am sorry. I am sorry. I fear you are too late,” he whispered, and lifted his left arm.

With a gasp, Louis identified the short end of a feathered shaft protruding from between the ribs under his arm. Assessing the angle, he realized that the entire arrow was inside the chest cavity. Reaching and feeling the blood soaked shirt beneath Guillaume’s right arm, he felt the point of the arrow emerging there.

“It’s inside him! The arrow is inside him!” He whispered in horror. Thetis’ face turned white, and they both gripped Guillaume as his knees buckled, and he sank slowly to the dusty ground by the wall.

Louis hesitated for a moment, and then ran back up the steps. “Achilles! Achilles! Help!”

Achilles handed the spear to the nearest Knight and followed Louis back down the steps. In fevered haste, Louis brought him to Guillaume and explained the situation.

Kneeling down at his Odysseus’ side, Achilles felt under both his arms. “We must remove the arrow. Have you any powers out here?” He asked his mother. 

Thetis’ blue eyes, so like his own, were wide. “Some,” she said, “but we must get him back to the island.”

Achilles nodded. “First we remove the arrow and stop the bleeding— No!” He stopped Louis, who grasped the shafted end as if to begin pulling. “Not that end, the flare will drag through him causing even more damage. We are lucky it went all the way through; we pull by the blade.”

First, he quickly ripped off the feathers, and then he reached under Guillaume’s arm for the blade. Gripping it firmly, he drew slowly on the blood soaked arrow, which slid out with gouts of fresh blood following it. Guillaume gave a deep groan through his clenched teeth, and then sank in relief when the arrow was out.

Now Thetis and Achilles put their hands on him; Thetis placing her hands on his chest, Achilles over both entrance and exit wound. They looked at each other briefly, and then closed their eyes and concentrated, just as they had done once before, over poor Henri on the beach of their island home.

Louis stood back, watching in concern, and then glancing around them at the deteriorating situation. He heard the thunderous crack as another stone hit the wall, launched from the trebuchet. It rattled the wall, causing a plume of dust to rise up over their heads. Renewed screams from the citizenry filled the air as more frantic souls crowded at the gate, hoping to escape the city. The streets were full of abandoned treasures that the panicked denizens had brought to the exits, hoping to take them on their voyages, only to leave them as word spread that the departing ships had only room for humans, and not all of them at that.

Achilles and Thetis hovered over Guillaume, pouring all their healing energy into him. After a moment, he was blinking up at them, still dazed, but aware.

“He’s not fully healed,” Achilles judged. “You must take him away. I’ll help you find a boat, but I can’t return with you.”

Thetis nodded briskly, not needing to discuss the matter. Together, they helped the weakened Guillaume to his feet and toward the gate. Louis watched them go, hoping for the best for his friend. Then he turned and went back up the steps to the top of the wall again. He knew Achilles would return to him soon.


	13. The Fall of Acre

When Achilles finally settled his mother and the wounded Knight on an outbound ship to Cypress—which involved much bribery and many gold pebbles—he returned along the beach at a steady run, anxious to get back to his Hector. At the gate, he met soldiers and Knights alike attempting to push their way out. The din of war was at fever pitch now.

“The wall is coming down,” called one of the Knights as he shouldered through the crowd. “You’d best come with us.”

“Where is Louis?” Achilles shouted back.

But the Knight only shook his head, and turned to surge out with the escaping droves. Achilles pushed his way through the crowd and was soon near the wall again. He noted the blood soaked sand where Guillaume had lain, and looked directly up. There on the wall, which indeed was crumbling away in chunks, still fought his Hector, slashing at invaders as they struggled up the ladder, showing every indication that he would simply fight until he fell. Shaking his head at his lover’s stubbornness, Achilles charged up the steps and joined him on the wall. 

Louis was fighting with his long legs braced apart and eyes burning with determination. His hair was a wild mane of curls, and he roared as he ran through an invader and threw the body back onto the next one coming up the ladder. With another movement, he bashed a climbing Mamluk with his shield and sent him flying. Achilles regarded him for a moment with pleasure. Watching Hector in the fullness of his capacity made his adoration surge within him.

Suddenly, a particularly large stone from the trebuchet hit the wall directly beneath them, and Achilles felt the shudder under his feet. Then it seemed as though the entire wall rippled. Hector lost his grip on his sword and shield both, and his arms waved at his sides as he strove to keep his balance. With a shout of warning, Achilles dove at him, wrapping his arms around his beloved and holding on tight as he jumped from the wall and bore them both down to the street. Above them the Mamluks’ cries of victory turned to screams of fear as the wall dissolved beneath their feet and crumbled. They fell with it, and into it. 

Achilles landed on his feet with Hector cradled in his arms, but the force of his landing dropped him into a squat, and there was no time to escape as the wall crumbled down atop of them both. Achilles did his best to shield his Hector with his own body, but the rocks fell on them both, and for the first time in his memory, Achilles felt the pain of serious damage being done to his nearly immortal body. Rocks crushed his legs, shattered his ribs, pummeled his arms and head, and in a moment, he was unconscious beneath the massive mound of rubble that had once been the wall of Acre.

Dust rose up in a mighty cloud, like smoke from a bonfire, and those invaders who were not injured in the fall began swarming over the rubble with hoarse and blood curdling shouts of victory. By the hundreds they poured into the city, weapons drawn, slaughtering every inhabitant they encountered, soldier or civilian. Had Achilles been conscious to see it, it would have looked like every invasion he had ever witnessed, from Troy forward. Once he had been a member of the marauding hoard, savagely gleeful in victory. 

But Achilles and his Hector were beneath the rubble and dust, seriously injured, in unconscious embrace until long after the dust had finally settled, and the sun had traveled across the sky. The air was finally cooling when the handsome face, grey with dust, began to scowl and wince, and the blue eyes opened, blinking the powdery residue from his eyelashes. 

Achilles’ lips parted as he processed the incredible novelty of severe pain. In all his battles, he’d never been wounded. This sensation was a shock. His legs were a broken, helpless throb of agony. His back was raw, and breathing hurt his ribs. He swallowed, blinking unseeingly as he fought to right his mind. Dim light filtered down through the rocks, and after a moment his eyes focused on the adored face so close to his. Louis was unconscious, but breathing, and warm. Achilles shifted slightly, grimacing as the sharp, heavy rocks atop him dug in and pressed their weight down onto his lacerated flesh and broken bones.

He stopped moving and concentrated on healing himself—could he? Closing his eyes again, Achilles drew in his breath and imagined his ribs positioning themselves correctly, bonding back together, solid and undamaged. As he regulated his breathing and focused his energy, he felt the pain recede slowly. Heartened, he calmed and mentally moved his attention to his hips and legs, searching for damage with slight shifts of his muscles, finding the pain and attending to it, until gradually, he felt like himself again. 

It was growing dark. The cries of battle still were audible, but not very close by. Achilles squirmed until his arms were on either side of his Hector, and he propped himself up on his elbows, hearing the grinding of the rocks shifting over him. He did not move too much, however, not wanting to alert any nearby, celebrating invaders that there were survivors beneath the rubble. Now he concentrated on Louis, pressing his forehead against that wide cheekbone, touching his nose to the dark, close-trimmed beard, and pouring his healing energy into his unconscious lover.

After several moments of this, he felt his Hector’s broad chest rise more sharply, felt him inhale more deeply. Eventually, the dark eyes opened, and his head turned slightly. He gazed up at his angel calmly, as if he was not surprised at all to find himself alive under the crumbled wall, his savior wrapped around him in the semi-darkness.

“Did your mother and Guillaume get away?” He whispered.

“Yes,” Achilles murmured back, moving his head slightly to put his face into the dusty dark curls.

“That’s good,” Louis sighed, and seemed to contemplate their situation for a moment. “We should wait until night to move.”

“Agreed,” Achilles breathed, shifting again slightly, trying to find a comfortable position under the rocks that rested on him.

Louis winced. “My feet are trapped.”

“Pain?”

“Not much. Pressure. I’ll survive. We’ll just wait until dark.”

They breathed together for a moment.

“It’s over. Acre has fallen,” Achilles ventured finally.

Louis sighed quietly. “It was only a matter of time.”

“Are you satisfied now that you did all you could?” Achilles’ voice was a deep, soft rumble in his beloved’s ear.

“For Acre, yes. For the Knights Templar, no,” Louis admitted, his large eyes looking up at the rock resting on his warrior’s back. “Are you injured?”

“No,” Achilles said, not wanting to admit to his self-ministrations of the last half hour. 

Louis shook his head slightly. “You astound me, over and over,” he whispered.

Achilles glowed with pride, glad that his love had not seen his pain. “When we leave here, where do we go?” He dared not hope his Hector was ready to return to the island.

“North to Tortosa. The last stronghold. I must stand with the Knights.” Louis told him with quiet earnestness.

“Why must you?” Achilles asked, moving his fingers slightly over one strong bicep.

“I am their King. I will never be King of France. But they have cared for me, protected me, loved me. I must do what a king would do for his men.” Louis said.

Achilles breathed deeply, inhaling his Hector’s scent, his gaze wandering over the strong chest and the long neck.

“When do I get that sort of loyalty?” He wondered wearily.

Louis tipped his head slightly and gave him a quizzical look. “You don’t need that from me. You’re a god. You don’t need to concern yourself with the affairs of mortal men at all. I don’t know why you do.”

Achilles looked at the face he cherished so much. “Don’t you? Truly?” He asked doubtfully.

“I’m not worth it,” Louis said matter-of-factly. “I’m just a man.”

“What makes you just a man? That you live a mortal life, and die? But you remember your other lives. You have more knowledge of time in your mind than any other mortal who walks this earth right now. As for death, that’s your choice. I could take you back to the island, and you would be immortal there. But you reject it for the sake of your Knights,” Achilles informed him huskily. “You have more heart than any man I have ever known.”

Louis smiled up at him, and Achilles saw that he had actually made his lover happy, for a moment at least.

“Have I?” Louis asked whimsically.

Achilles nuzzled his mate lazily. “One day, I hope you will be as satisfied with me as I am with you.”

But his Hector gave him a stern look. “You should not be satisfied with a life of mere pleasure, helping no one.”

Achilles stopped nuzzling and reared back (as much as he could, with rocks piled on him.) “I help you.”

“What good is that, unless I in turn help others?”

Achilles merely looked down at him blankly.

Louis sighed and tried to explain. “You are the god, and I am the king, and these are our people!”

“Ah,” Achilles said glumly. He squinted up and noted how very dim the light was now. “Alright. When we emerge from this rubble, if anyone is about, I will deal with them. You get to the beach, and I will be close behind.”

“And then?” Louis asked doubtfully, his dark eyes pinned on the warrior.

“And then I will help you get to Tortosa,” Achilles promised.

“Will you stay there with me, and be at my side, and fight with me?” Louis asked wistfully.

“Yes,” Achilles said, a touch of the familiar defeat in his tone.

“If I fall, will yours be the last face I see?” His Hector asked him softly.

Achilles swallowed. “Yes,” he said gruffly.

“And then you’ll come and find me again? Because you know now, I’ll be looking for you.”

Achilles lowered his head to give his stubborn mortal a lingering kiss. Louis kissed him back ardently. 

“Yes,” he admitted, when he finally broke away from the warm lips. He gazed down moodily at his Hector, remembering the first time he’d become aware of how much he wanted to lie down atop his long, powerful form. _You were lying on the sand, on the beach of Troy, and I realized that I love you._ “Yes,” he said again quietly, almost to himself. “Yes, I’ll always come for you.”

His Hector nodded, satisfied. “Shall we leave this place now?”

Achilles braced his arms on either side of his love and began slowly pushing up, feeling the rocks shifting atop him. “Tell me when your feet are free, and be ready to run.”

“Whatever you say,” Louis said with a smile, and Achilles thought, _Ah...if only that were true._


End file.
